


Shatter

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Inline with canon, M/M, Men Crying, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25244593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Morel is looking far forward, wondering how far from the walls Knov was able to get, wondering how close he’ll need to draw to find his partner, wondering over the dozens of things that could have gone wrong and finding none that could result in this; and then there is a faint sound, hardly audible over the sound of the rain, and Morel turns at once in answer." Morel collects his partner after Knov's escape from the palace.
Relationships: Knov/Morel Mackernasey
Kudos: 47





	Shatter

Knov is late.

Normally this wouldn’t be an enormous concern. Morel has been a Hunter long enough, and worked with an extended team long enough, to recognize that a single unexpected event can cascade into a whole series of delays. It’s part of why he prefers to coordinate with pairs rather than the full group together; it’s far easier for Knuckle and Shoot to keep in contact with each other than for Morel to manage both of them along with Knov, and their separate units can come together to share information and plans for the future as they become relevant. He’s prepared for delays, is ready for any number of mishaps within his immediate unit as well as his students and their other allies; but this is Knov, and Morel knows him too well to think that the passage of minutes beyond their agreed-upon meeting time is as trivial as it might be were he coordinating with someone else. Knov is a precise man, as careful with his judgment of time as he is in maintaining his habitually crisp appearance, and as Morel watches minutes collect towards an hour he feels a knot of something too heavy to be panic clench itself in his gut. There is no point to panicking, not when any damage that might be done has already passed; but that doesn’t stop the sense of dread from forming to a stone in his belly, until he thinks he would sink immediately if returned to the flooded church he left with the conclusion of his most recent fight.

He waits for over an hour. It’s the reasonable thing to do, Morel knows, and he’s not about to jeopardize the mission by going off half-cocked like the rookie Hunter he hasn’t been for long years. Still, watching the last fifteen minutes pass feels like an exercise in resignation, as his mind skips ahead to the inevitable conclusion and runs hypothetical approaches to the loss of a member of their party and the strategic value he represents. Knov is more than his ability, of course—Morel thinks there is no one in the world who knows that better than he—but they are in the middle of a war, and Morel’s personal feelings have no more place here than they would standing before incoming fire. So he waits, watching the minutes pass to carry him forward into the reality of the future, and as the clock announces the loss of eighty minutes Morel draws a breath, and steels himself, and reaches for his phone.

He isn’t expecting an answer. He knows what risks Knov was taking on in this aspect of the mission; he knows how much defense his casual  _ don’t die _ is likely to carry in the face of Nen-wielding Ants with abilities that are less threatening in their uncertain possibilities than in their known facts. If they are lucky Knov is only dead; the loss of a strategy, of an ability, of a partner, is nothing compared to the potential destruction that would come with capture and the conclusion of such. In neither case will there be a reply, Morel’s call will ring through with nothing but silence to ask the question he needs answered,  _ dead or alive_; and then there is a  _ click_, and Morel sucks in a startled inhale as the line comes open.

There is no greeting. Morel can hear sound—a hazy noise like static, interrupted by inconsistent rasps of air against the microphone—but there is no  _ hello_, nor the sharp break in the connection that Knov might offer in the situation where the sound of his voice would be an untenable risk. Morel wonders what the circumstances could possibly be that would lead Knov to answer his phone but not to speak; and then his skin prickles with chill and he lifts his chin as he considers that maybe it’s not Knov on the other end of the line at all.

“Hello,” Morel says, neutral and dispassionate. “Is that you?”

There is a drag of sound, like a wind blowing directly against the speaker of the phone; and then a choked-off note, so high and breaking that it takes a moment for Morel to place it as Knov’s voice at all.  _ “Morel,” _ Knov says, but he’s not speaking: he’s sobbing, weeping into the phone until the sound of his rasping inhales is enough to drown out the pattering sound of what must be the rain.

“Knov,” Morel says, and he’s on his feet without thinking of it, his body surging with the impulse to act before he has determined the circumstances. “Where are you? Were you caught?”

There is a pause before Knov replies.  _ “No,” _ he gasps. _ “I’m—I’m outside the palace.” _

A fraction of the tension in Morel’s chest loosens, a knot under his breastbone eases free; but alarm is rising like a tide, sweeping in to take the place of the dread against which Morel had so thoroughly armed himself as if it is being pulled in by the unprecedented sound of Knov crying. “You couldn’t make it in?”

_ “No,” _ Knov says.  _ “I made it in, I got past the gate and—inside, into the hallway, I s-set the—the—” _

His voice is shattering, giving way to choking, hiccuping desperation, as if he’s suffocating on the effort of words. Morel flinches from the sound of it and offers speech by reflex. “You set the entrances?” Knov gasps a breath. It sounds enough like relief for Morel to take as assent. “You’re outside the palace?” Knov stutters an inhale. Morel blows out all the air from his lungs in a sigh.

“Alright,” he says, and settles the weight of his pipe more firmly against his shoulders. “I’m on my way.”

It’s raining outside, and has been for some time, to judge from the mud slicking the ground slippery and dangerous no matter how carefully Morel places his feet. He has to watch where he’s going, has to keep his attention turned to his steps to avoid the risk of a fall; and then the palace comes into view, and his instincts disregard the lesser threat of slipping for the greater of the building and the inhabitants within. It’s too far off for Morel to sense any of the spreading Nen reaching out to swallow up any intruders, surely; but his skin still prickles, his hand at the stem of his pipe still flexes, and his steps fall into the soft rhythm of anticipated combat with no conscious thought on his part at all.

He doesn’t see Knov. Morel had intended to emerge from the same exit Knov took and retrace the other’s path up to the palace walls, if needed; but the rain is washing away any trace of footprints and hazing the air, and though Morel is grateful to the cover to their footsteps it provides it is also making his self-set task significantly more challenging. Morel crouches down to break up some of the outline of his body in silhouette, and touches a hand to the ground to steady himself, and continues forward, turning all his efforts to the task of finding his partner.

He doesn’t see him. It ought to be easy to pick out the dark of Knov’s suit from the drab surroundings around them; but Knov is well-hidden, even from the line of Morel’s approach, and all Morel can see around him is the wet ground and the low shrubbery that provides some measure of concealment from a casual glance from the direction of the palace. Morel is looking far forward, wondering how far from the walls Knov was able to get, wondering how close he’ll need to draw to find his partner, wondering over the dozens of things that could have gone wrong and finding none that could result in this; and then there is a faint sound, hardly audible over the sound of the rain, and Morel turns at once in answer.

Knov is hidden behind a spread of greenery, hunched in tight over himself with a few branches to give him cover. Morel sees at once why he didn’t spot him: the other is flat on the ground, curled in on his side with his knees drawn up towards his chest and his arms lifted to press against his face. He’s not watching Morel, maybe hasn’t seen him at all, but he’s visibly shaking, his shoulders and hands and even his legs quivering with helpless tremors where he’s lying in the mud.

Morel’s blood goes to ice. “Knov,” he says, and he’s moving faster than he means to, faster than he should when the speed of his action could be enough to draw unwanted attention from the far distant walls of the palace. He comes forward, scrambling over the muddy ground to reach Knov’s position as he reaches to grip against the other’s shoulder. “Knov, what—”

Knov jerks as Morel touches him, flinching back with such force that it seizes Morel’s words to silence in his throat as the other gasps over a whimper of such absolute panic that Morel’s adrenaline jumps in reflexive response. Knov’s hands press tighter to his face, his palms spread open and overlapping to hide his eyes, and when he sobs a breath it has the wordless horror of a hunted animal, with none of the coherency Knov usually wields with such ease. Morel pulls his touch back, staring down at Knov as his ever-composed partner shudders in terror against the muddy ground; and then he blinks, and deliberately loosens the tension in his body, and reaches out again.

“Knov.” Morel is speaking louder, now, pitching his voice to a deliberate softness that he has to push himself to sustain. “Knov, it’s me. It’s Morel.” The very tips of his fingers brush against the shoulder of Knov’s coat. Morel can feel the quaking adrenaline that is so incapacitating the other man, can feel the barely-restrained tremors of panic knotting in Knov’s muscles and shuddering under his inhales, but he doesn’t move to offer greater contact than the casual weight of his fingertips. “You listening?”

Morel isn’t sure he’ll get a response. Knov is still hunched in, his face hidden in the protection of the arms he has raised before him as if to block a blow; he doesn’t appear to be aware of Morel’s presence at all, at least as anything more than a nameless threat. But Morel pauses all the same, hesitating to allow a space for Knov to find coherency, and after a span of long heartbeats there is a whisper from behind the wall Knov is making of his arms. “Morel?”

Morel hardly recognizes Knov’s voice for how ragged it sounds, raw and shattered as if the other man has been screaming, as if his throat is showing the evidence of endless terror to match the reflexive fear that has locked his body to such immobility. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t let free any sign of the concern that is uppermost in his thoughts. “That’s me,” he says instead, as close to his normal tone as he can get, and he slides his hand in a little farther to clasp Knov’s shoulder in his hold. “I came to take you back to safety.”

Knov shudders, his whole body brought to bear on the single expressive statement that flexes along the full length of him from hunched-in shoulders to drawn-up knees. “You can’t,” he rasps. “There’s nowhere that’s safe, not while  _ they’re_—” He sobs on a breath and curls in tighter. “They’ll  _ find _ us, they’ll  _ take _ us, they’ll—they’ll—”

“Hey,” Morel says, clear to break through Knov’s rising panic but still as gentle as he can be. He tightens his grip on Knov’s shoulder and shakes in careful counterpoint to the other’s involuntary trembling. “They’re not here right now. You listening to me?” His other hand is occupied with bracing the weight of his pipe over his shoulders; Morel lifts it out to set down carefully between himself and the distant palace walls before reaching out so he can brace both of Knov’s shoulders still. “You’re alright.”

Knov shakes his head. “No.” He lowers one of his arms to reach out and clutch against Morel’s forearm; his fingers dig in painfully hard, but Morel stays steady without flinching as Knov pulls against him to lift himself off the ground. “They’ll come after me, they’ll  _ follow _ me, I can’t—” He lifts his head to look up. “I  _ can’t_.”

Knov looks dreadful. Morel was expecting some kind of panic; it would take a psychological blow of catastrophic proportions to so absolutely sweep away all of Knov’s composure to such cowering fear. But the terror has carved itself into his features, hollowing his cheekbones and shadowing his eyes as if the last half hour has dragged him through a decade’s worth of tortured time. His gaze is unfocused, his mouth quivering with the same panic trembling his clutching grip to weakness and slumping his shoulders into absolute surrender, until it is hard for Morel to even see his ever-composed partner in the bloodless face turned up to him. The blow strikes deep, like feeling the foundation of the world dissolve to sand beneath his very feet, and it is a moment before Morel can swallow the knot in his throat back far enough to rasp himself into speech.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “I’ll do it.” And he reaches to set his hand at the back of Knov’s neck and pull the other in against him. Knov gives way to the force without mustering the strength to assist Morel’s goal, so he ends more fallen across the other’s lap than sitting up against his chest, but it’s enough for Morel to lean in over him and offer some protection from the rain with the line of his shoulders under his fast-dampening shirt.

Knov’s shaking hand comes around Morel’s waist, his fingers clawing for purchase on some stability enough to hold him where he is, to keep him steady against the panic that has so swallowed his awareness. “Morel,” he says, sounding almost like himself for a moment; and then his arm tightens, his breathing shatters into a sob, and Morel curves his arm to protection around Knov’s bowed head as the other man shudders into tears against him.

“They’re going to  _ find _ us,” Knov wails. “They’re going to take us apart and put us back together like  _ dolls_. I couldn’t—I didn’t—”

Morel spreads his fingers wide against Knov’s shoulders. “Ssh,” he soothes, stroking gentle comfort across the other’s back. “You’re okay. You made it out, you’re not in there any more.”

Knov hiccups onto a breath. “ _Palm_ is.” His grip flexes at Morel’s shirt until he is crushing a fist into the fabric. “I sent her in there and now she’s _trapped_ , and they’re going to find her and _take_ her, I felt it, I _know_ and I—” His voice breaks, spilling to an open-mouthed sob as his shoulders quake on the impossible force of grief. “I _can’t_ _go back_.”

“I know,” Morel says. “We’ll figure it out.”

“I abandoned her,” Knov says, faint and broken past all hope of repair; and then his shoulders sag, his head presses close, and he gives up what remains of coherency to a helpless surge of sobbing against Morel’s shirt.

Morel doesn’t try to stop him. He keeps his hand against Knov’s back, pressing steady comfort close to the other’s shoulderblades as the front of his shirt goes as wet with Knov’s tears as his shoulders are with the rain, and when he lifts his head it is as much to give Knov the illusion of privacy as to look out towards the hazy horizon. The palace looms before them, rising walls making a greater shadow than it ought to command against the flat expanse of the plain on which it sits. It’s far too distant for Morel to sense any of the forms within it, much less see them; but he stares at it anyway, his jaw set and arm steady around the most recent casualty of this fight.


End file.
